Enter boldly the big room
Round tables of eight
One, just a single, no group
Nonchalantly searching
For a spot to discretely
Unnoticeably slide
Into a chair that appears
Unsaved by someone’s
Colleague, maybe their
Friend, who is running
Late and there will be
No hand that flattens
Onto the seat of this
Uncomfortable chair
While the voice indicates
This is taken, eye
Contact avoided by
Me, but she will mean
business and will pierce
My sideways gaze in
Protection of the spot
She has reserved for
Someone whose eyes
She knows by heart
Category Archives: Poetry
Tackle and Tool Boxes Don’t Come with Instructions
Fathers are quieter in their love, committed
No less so than mothers, more so some days
Responsible often for lawns, and repairs
Sometimes better in the kitchen and laundry
Having loved or still loving the mothers
Who more than likely get and take special
Credit for doing more, caring more deeply
It is not truth that anatomy and physiology
Is a bequeather of parenthood, nor is it less male
Than female. Accepting daily responsibilities
For unglamorous, unnoticed, unappreciated
Chores and love’s daily laborious considerations
The being there, anchoring, when things fall apart as often
As when life hands a child tiny as well as large successes
The dads who take care of me and now my children
Value not being late and watch time’s precautions
The dads I know and love always seem to know
The details of a toolbox, a tackle box and take
Seriously the instructions for putting countless
Gadgets together, the nuts and bolts that
Keep it all solidly together and never act concerned
When there are one or two screws remaining
Silently putting them away for safe keeping
Love Story
I can see her so clearly, that lovely red knit hat
Snug over that gorgeously long full brown hair, the eyes
I studied them, their aloof cool smarty pants flirting
With the brooding wealthy kid who easily had it all
I remember it seemed endlessly winter, or cold
It was always vaporous breaths, shivers in sweaters
I mistakenly believed the romance of weather
She said, love means never having to say you’re sorry
I whispered this out loud in unsuccessful efforts
To understand true love from beauty’s advantaged view
I thought that love meant you couldn’t do anything wrong
That my other would magically enter my life
I expected cold and the wearing of Irish knit
No apologies need cross our lips for feelings hurt
I would have compassion, as would he, for all errors
Of daily weakness, inconsiderations, and faults
I found not this perfected cinematic love,
Where there are collegially played scenes throwing snowballs
I have learned that we all transgress from love’s intention
There has been no Irish knit protecting from those chills
I know that death is not pretty or white like portrayed
Sad my wishing, striving for complete understanding
I have asked to be forgiven and so have they…with pleases
Impatience
Heart, a tambourine shaking
Stomach clenching on bile,
Cacophony building
Electrically charged
Invisibility
Floating just above skin
Hands fistulas of dread
Tremulous waiting with this
Purposeless parade of
Subliminally sent
Messages hastening
To mindless receivers
Consideration pinched
Awareness simply lost
My weakness is your pleasure
Inspiration
Drivel not, never is
To be the source of this
Causing one to contort
Sway, jerk in an effort
Which from appearance seemed
Impossibility
Feelings proved creating
A tangible something
Lasting for the future
The heart felt strongly here
Breakfast with Buse 